The dark mother

by Waldo David Frank

His father died ten years before. He remembered storms of temper and showers of affection: he remembered pourings of words. He could catch no memory of his mother’s words woven into his father’s. His father’s voice and his mother’s seemed separate always. He wondered what this meant. They had lived in Boston, his father had been well on his way to fame. There he was born. They left and their leaving was woven into the contrast of his father’s humors and wild words, his mother’s rigid eyes. Adolph Markand had stopped performing with his violin. He became a teacher. Little girls and young women rang the bell and were secreted with him in the parlor. Sometimes no music came through the hour. His mother grew nervous in the kitchen. She dropped a dish. She said: “David, go into the parlor and fetch my sewing.” He stepped to the door. “Wait,” she called. “Don’t bother, dear....” In a rasping voice: “Why don’t you go out in the garden and play?”

His father died. A mighty man who was an uncle came up to them from New York; Anthony Deane, a man within a white waistcoat, under a stove-pipe hat, a man who was his mother’s brother. He said to David with a god-like unction: “You and Mamma will stay on at the house, never fear, my lad.” He patted his cheek with two round ringed fingers.

The funeral was a mellow flat in his mind; one moment, like a hill that stood sheer above the field where he lounged on Sundays, marked it forever. His mother was dry-eyed and so was his uncle. They were busy and pious, they did not weep. Yet his mother was sad. He was sure of that. He felt a terror in her lack of tears—a portentous suffering beyond the relief of his own. They stood over the grave and the body went down. He could not keep his eyes from his mother. He said to himself: “Look at that box, that’s father; that’s the last time you will see him.” It was no help. His mother was beautiful and tall, her black dress was a delight. He loved her black dress that showed off so well the soft white hands, the pale smooth cheek, the warm heaving of her bosom! Her eyes were large brown eyes and they were dry and there was sun in them: she did not fend them. Her eyes looked at the coffin of her husband, rigidly as if he were dancing instead of still and hidden in a box. Then they turned away: his mother looked at the girl who stood across from her, near David. A soft round girl named Letty who had red eyes now and was his father’s pupil. The deep commotion of his mother’s breast was gone: she threw forth her hands, palms outward as if there was some one against her. Tears came. His mother sobbed and covered her face, she almost fell. His uncle led her away. She wept a long time.

The next morning, again, her eyes were dry and her breast that he so loved again moved deeply.

That was many years ago when he was ten, and he had lived close and alone with her for ten more years. His mother did not breath at peace, like other women—like other people. David’s mind flew to another happening and stayed there....

A girl came in with her machine, it was the first year he worked in Mr. Devitt’s bicycle shop, now he remembered. He must have been fifteen. He was already tall, the full golden down on his cheeks and lips disturbed and inspired him. It was a splendid brand-new Eagle with one of those coaster-brakes that seemed a miracle even after he had learned to put them on, take them apart. Mr. Devitt and Joe were in the shop, but she stayed there in the door, balancing a moment, and came to him straight. The front tire was punctured. “This won’t take but five minutes,” he said. “You’ll wait, won’t you?” No one in the shop noticed how she stood there before him, with her feet slightly apart and firm, and in some way made him look at her—as he had never cared to look at a girl. His heart beat fast: he saw her. She had a soft throat, she had bright hair, her body was slender music. She said: “I’m in a hurry: couldn’t you bring it to me? My name is Miss Marshall. You know—Elm Street.” It was near the time for going home. He thought that he did not wish to take it, but it was near the time for going home and he could not say no. He went. She came slowly to meet him: she took the wheel from him very fast and leaned it against the tall grape arbor. She paid him his money. He moved away; she looked at him; and her eyes held him. He stood there fixed; her eyes went up and down the arbor and the garden. Up and about went her eyes and their meaning was clear: they could not be seen. She stepped close. She placed her hands on his shoulders, her eyes were now under his. David looked down from her eyes to her soft still bare throat—to her body. He could see her little breasts like apples within her blouse. He saw that they were quiet. They were round and hard and quiet. A strange will crept over David: that they should be soft and heaving. For this reason his arms went over her, he kissed her mouth.

He held her at his arm’s length. Her face was white. There was mist over her look at him. Her breasts moved! Deep, hard she breathed and her breasts moved! He was afraid. He wanted to get away. He was a little sick with what he had done. He left her. He did not kiss her again....

The guests raced, the woods brooded, near David sitting with his past. The rain let up.

Trees rose higher and more sheer, they were black in the sky. A faint wave of air came upon the grasses: they were a film of green and yellow and purple over the ground. The grasses flowed into the air where the heavy rain had been. David saw how the sky changed. It was farther away and solid, no longer shredding in mist.

Nature was near to him once more. The talk was near and spreading. He began to understand the words that went endlessly on. It was like being in the rain, face up, where he could see the separate drops strike him, and the full sweep of the rain was lost.